Dead End
by Route67
Summary: Not long after parting with their father, Dean and Sam embark on a new hunt. But as Dean attempts to track down a wraith and work out Sam's anger at John, things get even more complicated when the wraith goes after Sam. Now John could be Sam's only hope.
1. One

**Dead End**

* * *

**Title: **Dead End

**Rating: **T / PG-13 (for violence and peril)

**Summery: **Not long after parting with their father, Dean and Sam embark on a new hunt. But as Dean attempts to both track down a wraith and work out Sam's anger at John, things get even more complicated when the wraith goes after Sam. Is it true that the demon is John's highest priority? Because he could be Sam's only hope.

**Time-Frame: **Season 1: Not long after "Shadow"

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters/places/names in Supernatural; they are the property of the CW Network and its associates.

**Feedback: **Oh definitely! I take glowing praise, constructive criticism, flames and Master Card. So please! Hit me with it. ;)

* * *

_tap tap tap_

"Simone, would you get that?"

Simone slumped a little lower in the orange sofa cousins. "You get it."

Todd rolled his eyes at her. "It's your door."

"Well, you're the one who invited yourself over here."

Todd sat up straight, turning the volume down on the TV, hoping to direct her attention to him. "Listen, baby, I didn't mean those things I said."

Simone threw her hands in the air, picking up where an old argument had left off. "You called me a dork."

"I did not."

"Yes you did!"

"No, no I didn't." Todd scooted towards her. "I said…I said you were strange. And you are," he added quickly, and ran a hand down her cheek. "That's what I love about you. That's why I wanted to come over. To tell I was wrong. I shouldn't have said those things, especially since your dad…" He cleared his throat. "I mean, that's why you ran away, right?" She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I'm really sorry, baby."

Simone smiled in spite of herself. "And the whole palm reading, fortune telling, dream interp stuff, that doesn't bother you?"

He gave her hand a squeeze. "Maybe it did once, but now I get it. Chase was right about you all along. That stuff's part of what makes you so awesome." She blushed a few shades paler than her hair, and turned the TV up again.

_tap tap tap_

"Oh geeze, the door!" Simone jumped off the sofa and ran to the entryway.

Todd called over his shoulder, "If it's the pizza guy, I left the cash on the stool."

Simone snatched the twenty up off the green stool beside the door, grabbed the handle, and pulled it open. "Hey, thanks-" but no one was there. She glanced around the street, looking for a car, but didn't see one. And then she saw it. A teenager was running down the sidewalk to her right. Running fast, as though pursued.

"Hey!" She called, and the teen stopped, turning around. Simone felt her heart freeze in her chest.

"Got the pizza, baby?" Todd hollered from the living room, but Simone didn't reply. He wouldn't get it. He wouldn't understand. She slipped down the front steps, onto the sidewalk, and ran after the stranger, disappearing around the street corner.

- - - - -

**MISSING TEEN FOUND UNCONSCIOUS IN ABANDONED HOUSE**

Sam folded the newspaper and tossed it back into Dean's lap. Dean looked offended. "What?"

"A teenager goes missing after an argument with her boyfriend, shows up three days later in an abandoned building. Yeah, I can really see how that fits into the paranormal possibilities."

Dean raised his eyebrows and took a drink of coffee. "Geeze, you're in a bad mood."

Sam took the newspaper back, gazing over the article a second time. "Well I'm sorry, I just don't see how this is our kind of thing."

"You don't find it at all strange that Simone appeared to have been pushed down the stairs and there was no sign of a struggle or of anyone else being there?"

"No," Sam said flippantly, raising his eyebrows. "Not really."

Dean gave him a examining look, then shrugged. "Still worth checking out. Look here," he tapped the newspaper, "it says that they searched the house for any sign of inhabitants, but it was clear the house hadn't been lived in for twenty years. Also, the kid had rope burns around her wrists and red marks all over her chest."

Sam showed the first spark of interest. "And they're still buying the runaway theory?"

Dean shrugged. "Apparently with so sign of a second party, they can't assume anything else."

"Well maybe she did it to herself." There was a long pause.

Dean sat back in his chair and fiddled with the handle of his mug, avoiding eye-contact. "I know we missed it. Dad and I, we forgot again." Sam's head snapped up. "What? You thought I wouldn't remember?" He shook his head. "Give me a little credit, Sam."

Sam sighed, taking a drink of coffee. "It doesn't matter, Dean."

"You sure?" Sam's lack of response was all the answer Dean needed. "Okay," he said in that fine-be-that-way sort of way, and ruffled the newspaper open again. "But you at least have to give this thing the benefit of a doubt."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning," Dean said impatiently, "we swing by and ask the boyfriend a few questions. Maybe take a look at that house."

Sam threw his hands up. "Fine. Whatever you want."

"Man, why're you so grumpy?" Dean demanded, smacking his brother on the back as he paid for their coffee.

Sam collected up his computer and coat. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are, now are you gonna tell me what's wrong?" He just shook his head and Dean sighed. "All right. Then it's off to Evanston, Wyoming."

- - - - -

"Why do I always have to lie for us?"

"Cause people believe you." Sam made his patented come-again expression. Dean hit him on the shoulder. "You look like you're flippin' four, dude."

Sam glared and then promptly smiled innocently as they approached the hospital's front desk. "Uh, hi," he said as smoothly as he could. "I'm Professor Samuel Rogers, this is my brother Dean Rogers. We're teachers from Simone Francis' school, we wanted to check in on her." When the lady behind the counter didn't reply, he added, "Could you tell us where Simon's room is?"

Still looking a little suspicious, she pointed down the hall, and Sam thanked her. "See, I can't sell a lie any better than you."

"Nah," Dean said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "She woulda called security on me."

"That's cause you're a punk."

Dean stopped and looked at him. "What?"

Sam shrugged. "Not a total punk, obviously. Real punks don't listen to Blue Oyster Cult. At least not since they stopped putting tape decks in cars."

Dean shook his head, astounded. "You think I look like a punk."

Sam nodded at him. "Just the hair, Eric Bloom."

"Oh you're hilarious, Buck Dharma."

They walked into the sterilized-looking room and found a pretty girl with vibrant, red braids, lying pale and unconscious in the bed. Beside her, a tired-looking dark-haired boy sat, holding her limp hand tightly, and staring into space.

Sam cleared his throat. "Todd Drake?" Todd sat up, startled. "Hey, sorry. I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean. We were wondering if we could talk to you about Simone."

Todd shook his head. "How did you- oh, the newspapers. I all ready talked to a bunch of reporters. I'll tell you what I've been telling everybody: I have no idea why she left, where she was, or how she ended up in that old house." Sam and Dean both seated themselves hesitantly in visitor's chairs. Todd watched them blearily, and turned back to Simone. "I just don't get it…"

Dean leaned forward. "What don't you get?"

"Well- I mean, Simone and I had a fight, right? But we'd made up. I mean, I apologized, I came over to her place…we were gonna have pizza, watch TV. But then she went to answer the door, and just- disappeared."

Dean gave Sam an I-told-you-so look Sam chose to ignore. Todd continued, "Everybody's been saying that she ran away, and I guess that sounds logical and stuff. But I think somebody kidnapped her. How else would she have gotten thrown down those stairs? Or had those red marks all over her." He shuddered.

"Todd," Sam inched forward a little. "If you don't mind me asking, what did you two argue about?"

"I called her-" Todd chocked up a little. "I said she was strange. Cause of all the stuff she was into."

"What stuff?"

"Oh you know, palm-reading, magic crystal stuff, the sort of new-age, hippie kind of thing. It was her favorite hobby, I guess- is. Is her favorite hobby." He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. "She's been unconscious since they found her. They don't know if she's going to wake up."

Dean pressed a little harder. "Todd, did Simone ever talk about spirits? I mean, ghosts, phantoms, was she into stuff like that?"

"Yeah, probably. I mean, she didn't really talk to me about it, cause I used to think it was weird. But I don't know…I was wrong, you know? She's really cool."

Sam nodded encouragingly. "Well I can't wait to meet her, when she wakes up."

- - - - -

"So, care to form a second opinion, Oscar?" Sam rolled his eyes, pulling the newspaper out of his back pocket.

"Maybe there is something here." Dean got halfway into a triumphant cackle before Sam whacked him in the chest. "Cut it out, it was a lucky guess."

"Yeah yeah, sore loser," Dean grinned as they climbed into the Impala. "So what do you say we check out that old house?"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah, fine, let's go." Sam shrugged, and buried his face in the newspaper.

Dean leaned back in the driver's seat, pausing. "You know I know what this is about."

Sam shook his head. "No you don't, cause it's not about anything. It's no big deal."

"It's not?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes, man, I'm sure!"

Dean shrugged and gunned up the engine. "Well hey, if you're sure I'm sure."

"Don't patronize me, Dean."

"Don't lie to me, Sam. Look, if you've got something bugging you, then you need to get it out the open and work it out. Okay, cause this whole look-don't-touch attitude you've got going on, it's really getting in the way of what we're trying to do. You know, killing bad guys, saving innocent people, this ringing a bell?"

"Well I'm sorry these issues you think I have are getting in the way of you playing superhero."

Dean made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl and put the car in gear. They pulled onto the highway and neither spoke to each other for a little over a half-hour, at which point, Sam said, "You're going to miss our exit if you don't get over."

"Thanks for the tip," Dean snapped, and pulled into the right lane. Then they didn't speak again until they'd reached the house.

- - - - -


	2. Two

- - - - -

"So this is it." Dean's eyes scanned up and down the rather unimpressive-looking building in front of them. It was tall and falling apart in many places. The paint was so chipped and faded that the once-white house was now an ugly, brownish tan.

"Yep." Sam pulled out a yellow folder from the backseat. "The police reports were an unhelpful read. They said uh…" he flipped through the pages. "They said when Simone was found, she was lying at the foot of the stairs, unconscious with multiple bruises and fractures…"

"How do they explain the red marks?"

"Well, she was kind of a weird one. And she has a history of hurting herself in the past, after her mom died. Nothing truly horrible, she just used to chew her nails until the tips of her fingers started bleeding. Almost accidental."

"Still, enough for police to safely assume that her falling-out with Todd drove her to run away to this place, more-or-less out of her mind."

"Yeah." Sam returned the folder to the backseat. "So what're you thinking? Poltergeist, maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe…" Dean sounded unconvinced. "Let's take a closer look."

They crossed under the yellow CRIME SCENE tape, and found themselves in the musty remains of what was once an impressive living room. They took a look at the staircase first. Nothing particularly interesting; from the top floor came eight steps then a corner then fifteen steps. It appeared to be made out of oak, the banister had no symbols or even scratches on it. They scanned it for EMF. The alarm blipped up and down erratically, but never got a solid reading. Like the EMF had become airborne somehow. Besides that and the fact that it was incredibly dusty, it was a normal staircase.

"So what do you think?" Sam asked after awhile.

Dean pocketed the EMF meter, still gazing up the staircase. "I dunno…whatever did this, it's gone now." They followed the thick trail of dust up the stairs and down a short hallway which had a locked door at the end.

"You want me to look for a key?" Sam asked, jimmying with the handle. Dean nudged him out of the way, trying the knob himself.

"Nah," he said, looking the door up and down, and then kicked it hard sending it crashing inward. Grinning, he strode inside. "Good thing for you, we punks know how to force entry."

Sam ran a hand down the doorway before raising his eyebrows and following Dean inside. "Good thing for you the door was rotted through."

Dean gave him a you're-no-fun expression, and started taking a look around the dusty room. "Looks like a bedroom."

Sam examined the dusty bed closely. "Look at this…" he pointed to the headboard and Dean jumped onto the bed, sending clouds of dust scattering on the dank air. Sam coughed hard.

Dean smirked. "Sorry."

"See these markings in the dust?" Sam said, still chocking a little, and his hand traced thick lines that spread in a cork-screw fashion down the posts at the head of the bed. "Ropes?"

Dean rummaged around behind the dusty mattress and yanked out an old, battered rope. "I'm gonna go with 'probably'." He handed the rope to Sam and dug in the mattress some more but found nothing.

"So Simone was definitely being held captive." Dean nodded absently, looking around the room, eyebrows knitted. Sam leaned forward, trying to read his expression. "What?"

"I was just thinking…why is it so incredibly dusty in here?"

Sam looked around. "Dean, this place hasn't been lived in for about twenty years-"

"Yeah, I know, but did you notice this much dust anywhere else?"

"Well yeah, the whole house is dusty."

"But- this dusty?" Dean pounded the mattress again, and the air filled with gray clouds. Sam covered his eyes.

"Geeze, Dean!"

"C'mon, Sam, tell me this doesn't look weird to you."

Sam shrugged, trying to rub the dust out of his eyes. "Okay we'll take another look around." So they left the room and poked around the upstairs. Sure enough, the only places where the dust was that thick was the bedroom, the hallway leading to it and the staircase.

Dean snapped a few pictures while Sam took a sample of the dust. Sam finished first, and put the vial of dust in his laptop bag. "What do you think?"

Dean took a final shot of the stairs and then stowed the camera, nodding. "I think we're dealing with a wraith."

"What?" Sam laughed dryly. "Dean, you may as well say we're dealing with a spirit. I mean- it's practically a classification. Besides, wraith's are mostly a phenomenon, not a being."

"Yeah, but think about it: The thick dust coating the stairs, the room and the hall. A girl gets lured here somehow, is stowed in the bedroom for a few days then thrown down the staircase."

Sam nodded slowly, putting the pieces together. "A residual haunting."

Dean shrugged. "It would explain the dust. Remains of a traumatic experience resulting in a death. Now the person who died is imprinted on the location of that experience. A wraith, right?"

"Okay," Sam slung his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go check the history on this place."

- - - - -

"A bed and breakfast." Sam tossed a piece of paper across one of the library tables where he and Dean sat. Dean picked the paper up, reading. "That building was a bed and breakfast for forty-six years. It could have been anybody who fell down those stairs and died."

Dean nodded, dropping the page and folding his hands on the table. "Then maybe it's something else."

Sam scoffed. "Like what?"

"Oh c'mon, Sam, don't be so difficult," Dean said firmly, fiddling with the corner of the paper, thinking.

Sam cleared his throat, looking away. "Sorry," he muttered. Dean glanced up at him, back at the paper, then shook his head, pushing the page back across the table.

"Hey, listen." Sam looked at him, sensing the conversation that was coming on. "I know what's bothering you." Dean shrugged, eyebrows raised. "It's not like it was any kind of mystery. I just figured…if I waited, you'd open up on your own. But I can see, if we don't get this worked out, it's just going to keep bugging you. And I can't work with you unless your head's in the game."

Sam pushed his chair back a little, arms folded, daring Dean to broach the subject. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean took a long breath. "Sam, we had to let him go." Sam smiled sarcastically, shaking his head. "You said you understood that."

"It's our hunt, Dean, ours. This family's hunt." He set his jaw, shaking his head over and over. "He shoulda taken us with him."

"Dad knows what he's doing, Sam. He's safer without us."

"Since when does Dad care about what's safe? The man lives on the edge all the time, but no, he can't possibly take his own sons with him on this thing-"

Dean's voice rose above his brother's. "If that's the only way we're going to kill this thing, it's worth getting left behind."

"Well that's easy for you to say, Dean, you don't have half as much banking on this."

Dean glared across the table at him. "Don't you say that. I may not have lost Jess, Sam, but I was four years old when we lost Mom. You and me are in the exact same boat."

"Then why were you so willing to let Dad go?" Sam demanded.

Dean didn't answer for a minute. Then, meeting Sam's eyes coolly, he said, "Because after everyone we've lost to this demon, I don't want Dad to be next."

They sat in silence for awhile, flipping through the records looking for anything relating to a death in that house, but came up dry. Finally, as though they'd never stopped talking, Sam said, "It's just that I hate not knowing where he is." Dean glanced up at him and didn't reply, so Sam continued. "You know, having to call his cell every time we need him, hoping that just maybe he'll get the message in time to help us out. And every time, he just…he never shows. He just stays gone."

"He showed up when it really counted," Dean said quietly.

"Oh yeah," Sam retorted, his voice jarringly louder. "Yeah, cause it involved the demon. Where was he when you almost died? Or when we went back to Lawrence? He's there when it's convenient, it has nothing to do with us." Normally, this kind of talk tended to get Dean riled up. But he seemed at a loss, and fixed Sam with a worn-out look that made Sam even more angry than any amount of shouting. "Dean. He doesn't care," he insisted.

"Yeah, Sammy, he does. Look, if Dad knew that we couldn't handle things? If he really thought we needed him, he'd come. 'kay, and I believe that. I do."

Sam just shook his head and stared down at his lap. But then the librarian came over and pointedly asked them if they needed any assistance. Sensing they were being too loud, Sam thanked her for all her help, and they gathered up their things and left.

- - - - -

"So how's the wraith research comin'?" Sam looked up as Dean entered the hotel room and shrugged. "Just the basics. They result from a violent or complicated death, like most troubled spirits, and uh…oh, they typically attempt to gain their life back by siphoning the life-force from living beings. But they can't actually be resurrected."

"Unfinished business."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, which is why they have to give up on their victims before finishing them off. In this case, the wraith threw Simone down the stairs since that's how he died. Another byproduct of the residual haunting."

"Any idea why it picked Simone?"

"Well, a wraith has no power outside of the place it haunts, so it had to have lured her. There's a lot of lore about wraiths appearing as a death omen, by duplicating a person's appearance. I'm guessing it picked Simone because she was so into ghosts and dreams; it figured she'd be open-minded."

"So she followed something that looked just like her all the way to that old bed and breakfast?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Dean pulled out a map and spread it over the table. "Here's the house- the Wicker house, that's what it's called." Sam nodded. "Okay, now, I checked the school records, and…here's Simone's current address." He tapped the page. Sam's eyes widened.

"That's like-"

"6.7 miles away," Dean finished.

"She just blithely walked almost seven miles?" Sam demanded, but Dean shook his head.

"I don't think she did. Get anything in your research about wraith transportation?" Sam shook his head. "Well, Dad did." He pulled out the journal and flipped quickly through it. "Looks like he was tracking a wraith for awhile. The signs and patterns for the wraith were so erratic, he came to the conclusion that it was capable of transporting itself instantly from one location to another."

"But can it take another living being with it? I mean, I thought it was powerless outside of the place it haunted."

"Not if the person follows willingly."

"Curiosity?" Sam raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Really?"

Again, Dean shrugged. "Guess it would have to be. If I saw myself walking down the street, I'd be intrigued."

"So it's been feeding off Simone for three days. Poor girl." He shook his head, looking up at Dean. "Do you think she's going to make it?"

"I dunno. I'm going to see if I can get some more info on the victims of the wraith Dad was tracking. From his notes, looks like he never caught up with it. So if it's the same one, we can find a common denominator between those victims and Simone."

"See where it'll strike next," Sam finished, and Dean snapped his fingers, jabbing him in the chest.

"Exactly!" He said cheerfully, and grabbed the laptop, disappearing into the bedroom.

Sam sat alone for a few minutes, staring at his cell phone. He'd flipped it open and hit the first three digits of his dad's number, before he ended the call and flipped it shut again. Dumb idea. Still, he couldn't help thinking, if anyone could help speed up this hunt it was their father. But Sam knew he wouldn't come if it wasn't "necessary". He probably wouldn't even pick up.

Pensive and annoyed, he got up and went to get some coffee.

- - - - -


	3. Three

- - - - -

"What do you mean 'nothing'?"

Dean looked irritated. "Well you're the educated one, Sam, how many definitions are there for 'nothing'."

"But there's got to be some kind of similarities between the victims."

"Yeah," said Dean loudly. "They all live in houses and listen to U2."

Sam ignored him, taking the laptop from his hands and setting it in his own lap. "Let's see, an eight-year-old boy in Wyoming, a thirty-six-year-old woman…huh, she was a doctor." Dean made an exasperated, wide-eyed expression that said, _oh wow, that explains everything!_ Sam went on. "Yikes. It looks like only…" he counted silently. "Only six of these twenty-seven victims survived."

"But none of them had anything in common with Simone.

"Umn, there's this one guy; a teenager about Simone's age…huh, but he was a geek. Logical guy. Not the type to go running after figments."

"Oh I dunno," Dean jabbed Sam's shoulder. "You're a geek and you chase figments."

"Dean, are you going to help me with this? I mean, it's your hunt, it was your idea. I thought I was the one in a bad mood."

Dean sat up straight. "Yeah, but you were cranky all morning. It's my turn." Sam grinned before he could stop himself. "Saw that," Dean murmured tiredly, and sighed. "Okay, so watcha' got?"

"Well I think you're right. They don't seem to have anything in common. I mean, the idea it's going after the open-minded…it's still a possibility. But if that's the case, we're sunk anyway. We can't interview random people seeing who would be most likely to follow a duplicate of themselves."

Dean kneaded his forehead. "Okay, so it's not the area, cause these people are all over the place. The only common denominator has been the MO. Thrown down the stairs, every time. Anything from the victims?"

"Nothing. Between the trauma and the fall, they never remember a thing. Though one or two admitted to seeing unexplainable 'visions' before their disappearance. But no specifics."

Dean kicked his sneakers off. "So it's not a Mara? The visions could be interpreted as nightmares."

Sam shook his head. "She'd kill trees, sometimes livestock, but she didn't attack people. " He flipped to the wraith notes in the journal. "Dad seemed to think the wraith's haunting came with some complicated rules it was having to follow."

"What, besides the stairs?"

"Yeah…" He turned the journal around to show Dean. "It can't be an anniversary, the strikes are so random: The first two, two years apart, the next two three months."

"Like it was having to wait for a specific situation before it could attack."

"Right. So maybe it has to be an certain kind of house or maybe there's something about the staircase. Without going to each of these locations and taking a look, I don't know what else we can do. And that could take months."

"Hey, what's that mean?" Dean took the journal, pointing to a spot near the bottom of the tattered page. "He wrote 'double' then scratched it out and wrote 'omen'."

Sam just shook his head. "No idea."

"So we're stumped." Dean sat back, sighing loudly and crossed his arms. Sam could only stay quiet for so long.

"You know who could help-"

"Sam," Dean groaned into his hand. "Don't."

"Well he's the one who's been tracking this thing."

"He's busy, okay, he's got stuff he's working on."

"It couldn't hurt to call," Sam said stubbornly.

"Yeah, Sam, it could. Cause then if he doesn't call us back you're gonna fly off the handle all over again. It's better if we don't even ask."

Sam shook his head, astounded. "I just don't get why you have so much faith in him."

Dean couldn't think of anything to say at first. He knew exactly why he had so much faith in him. He knew because of all the times his dad had promised things would be okay and they were. Because of all the hunts they'd gone on without Sam, leaving Dean to rely on him constantly. He'd been smart, calculating, never rash or overly emotional. He'd been right on target every time, and he always kept his promises.

But Sam was never there for that. So instead of trying to explain a side of John Winchester he was pretty sure his brother wouldn't understand, he shrugged and said, "Because he's our dad."

The conversation ended there, and Sam got up, dropped his phone on the bed, and said something about taking a walk. Silently, he left the room and Dean heard the front door swing open and click shut. He only glanced at the cell phone once, the temptation lasting a millisecond. Then he opened the journal and started brainstorming.

- - - - -

beep beep beep Todd's head nodded forward. He'd lost track of how long he'd been in here, but the doctors kept saying Simone was going to wake up anytime. He was just too afraid of not being there when she awoke, he couldn't leave.

Suddenly, something beneath his hand stirred. He sat up. "Simone?" Her eyes seemed to take twenty minutes to open. They fluttered up and down, unable to get a hold on her surroundings. "Simone! Hey, someone-" But there was all ready a nurse swinging around the corner, stethoscope in hand. She checked Simone's vitals, adjusted a few things on her IV drip, and said she'd be right back.

Todd leaned forward, relief flooding him. "Simone…can you hear me?"

"T…Todd-" she whispered hoarsely.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me, I'm here."

Her eyes widened suddenly, her face blanched. "Ch…Todd…"

"What?" He inched forward. "What, Simone, what is it?"

"Ch…Chase."

- - - - -

Sam ran his hands under the cold water, trying valiantly to collect his thoughts. It wasn't really working. All he could think about, it seemed, was that look on his dad's face when they'd parted ways. The way that Dean had tried not to look at him when he said it was the right thing to do. John's voice still rang in his head.

_Sammy, this fight is just starting. And we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you've got to trust me, son._

You've got to trust me, son. Sam splashed his face again. He wanted to scream, "Give me one good reason!"

He hadn't said a word to Dean since he'd gotten back from his walk and made a b-line for the bathroom, closing the door loudly behind him. Sam knew he shouldn't be taking this out on Dean. After all, they were both having to deal with this, and he couldn't imagine it was any easier on Dean than it was on him. Still, the way Dean always seemed to cut their dad slack never ceased to get to him.

When he was completely honest with himself, he realized it had nothing to do with anger. John Winchester was their best chance of ever catching up to the demon. And when he was gone, Sam began to feel like they'd never find it. It scared him.

"Sam?"

Sam jerked up, water still streaming down his face. He first looked to the bathroom door, but it was still closed. "Dean?" But he was fairly certain it hadn't been Dean's voice, but…something else.

"Sam."

He spun the other way, now looking out the window, hand groping for something that would serve as a weapon. But his fingers faltered when he saw who was standing just outside. His hand fell limply at his side, eyes disbelieving.

She just watched him, eyes warm and promising. "Follow me, Sam."

- - - - -

"Okay- okay…yeah, no that's very helpful, Todd. Thank you for calling me. Oh and hey, glad Simone's doin' okay…uh-huh…yeah, I will. Thanks again. Bye."

Dean hung up his cell and he went to the bathroom, knocking smartly on the door. "Sam?" He didn't wait for a reply. "The search just broadened even more, if that's possible. Simone's awake, and she doesn't remember the abduction at all. But get this: She remembers seeing visions, but didn't see herself, she saw her brother, Chase. Sam, he died three years ago. I did some digging on omens while I was on the phone with Todd, and I found one account that indicated they can also appear as someone who has died. That explains Dad's notation in the journal. So okay, I'm thinking we need to take another look at the victims and look hard, cause I mean, this could be anybody! This thing should be attacking all the time. We must've missed something."

Dean stood, panting, by the door, waiting for a response. There wasn't one. He rolled his eyes. "Aw, c'mon Sam, now is definitely not the time to be stubborn." Still, there was no reply. "Look- you're angry at Dad, I get it, okay? But I need you on this. We can worry about family disputes later, all right? Sam?" Still, he was met only by silence.

"Sam? Sam- what the…" It was then that he looked down at his feet and realized a thin wisp of dust was spraying under the door, coating the toes of his shoes.

"Sam!" He shoved his whole wait against the door, but it didn't budge. Pulling his gun from the waist of his jeans, he fired into the lock. The wood around the doorknob splintered and the door swung in. Dean ran inside. There was a thin layer of dust on everything in the bathroom, even on the running sink. Sam's coat was draped over the counter, and the window stood open.

"Sammy!" Dean ran to the window, but saw only the empty road stretching for miles away from the hotel. Two words echoed through Dean's head: _Instant transportation_. He slumped onto the bathroom floor and buried his face in his hands, mind racing. "Sammy."

- - - - -


	4. Four

- - - - -

Sam's first impulse was to sit up, but he couldn't. His head lolled to the side, and the awkward angle woke him up all the way. He blinked hard in the darkness, trying to remember what he'd been doing. It was sort of hazy, but he remembered being in the bathroom at his and Dean's hotel room…he remembered splashing his face and- and then he saw her.

Again, he tried to sit up, and this time he was alert enough to look around and see why he couldn't seem to rise. He was lying on a queen sized bed, each wrist secured to the one of the posts at the headboard with thick rope. He pulled on them for a little while, trying to get at the knots. When that didn't pan out, he tried lifting his head again, attempting to get an idea of where he was.

The door to the bedroom opened and Sam watched as a beautiful women in a white nightgown walked silently across the carpet to him and sat on the side of the bed. "Hello, Sammy."

Sam set his jaw. "Don't call me that."

"Sam-" the image of girl before him reached out and touched his cheek.

Sam flinched and pulled away. "You're not her."

Instantly, she faded away and was replaced by a dark shape. Its appearance was haggard and worn, its mouth a gaping hole from which thin streams of dust were flowing. But underneath the tattered cloths and shaded complexion, Sam realized the creature was once a man about his own age. It made an expression that seemed like a cold smile, though in the darkness, Sam couldn't see it well. He felt the whole room become musty and warm. Dust started collecting out of nowhere on the bed around him. He coughed, sending clouds of it spinning away into the air. Again, its wide mouth twisted into a smile, and then it said in a vacant, raspy voice, "I'm going to live again."

Sam shook his head slowly. "No you're not."

The wraith paused, almost taken aback, and then without warning, lunged forward.

- - - - -

"Sammy would never follow himself, that's for sure, so it was someone else. Someone dead someone who…could be Mom, could be Jess…could see what other forms wraiths can take- but that still doesn't explain the MO or give me any clue where he might…" Dean finally stopped pacing. The first actionable idea he'd had finally came to him, and he went over to the laptop, still muttering. "Double-check the victims, yeah. Yeah, there's gotta be a common…something that…maybe we missed, maybe…about the house…" his voice trailed off as his fingers pounded the keys for several minutes.

After about a hundred online searches, a lot of double-checking the available public record, and making a few phone calls, he'd managed to gather up a pile of information on where the victims had died. Unfortunately, it was all bad news.

Dean had been hoping to find something all the houses had in common, looking for some clue of where it might have taken Sam. But the boy from Montana had fallen out of a tree-house, the teenager had been in a high-school, and one man had fallen down the steps of an abandoned warehouse. All of them had gone missing for three days previously, all had been found with a thick coating of dust around. But none of these places were places anyone had expected to find them.

Frustrated, Dean hurled the papers in his lap across the room, watching them go fluttering only a few feet away from him and settle noiselessly on the floor. If Sam had followed the wraith willingly, then it could have transported him to anywhere in the world instantly. And Dean had never tracked a wraith before.

He sat in silence for perhaps a half-hour, sure something would occur to him, enlighten him, any minute. But nothing would come. It all seemed like a great, big dead end. Then Sam's voice came into his head…

"_So it's been feeding off Simone for three days. Poor girl. Do you think she's going to make it?"_

Without hesitation, Dean grabbed his cell phone, pounded the number from memory, and listened to it ring. He didn't move when the voicemail message came on, he barely breathed. Finally, it beeped, and the words came spilling out like his teeth had been the only thing holding them in.

"Dad, Sammy's been taken by that wraith you were tracking. I don't know where he is, or what it's going to do to him, but he's only got three days before we find him half-dead at the bottom of someone's staircase, so you've gotta come. Now." He paused, about to hang up. But something in him felt like he hadn't said all he wanted to. He put the phone back to his ear. "Sam says you wouldn't come even if we really need you. That the demon's more important. But I told him it wasn't true." And he quickly ended the call.

- - - - -

The moment the wraith touched him, Sam thought the rumor about being sucked dry over three days was false. Everything in him felt like it was all ready failing. Both of the wraith's hands were planted firmly on his chest, tugging at him, drinking in the energy from him. Sam heard himself cry out, but soon the only sound that came from his mouth were painful gasps for air.

His chest heaved under the wraith's touch, which seemed to please the creature. He probed with his fingers, muttering under his breath, "A lot of life in you…this will be easy."

Then, suddenly, he let go. Sam lurched forward, straining at the ropes around his wrists, then fell back onto the mattress, utterly spent. He panted, his head rolling limply to the side. The wraith stood over him with a malicious glint in its eyes, which Sam realized he could see now. In fact, his whole face had become a little more visible, as though he'd stepped out of the shadows.

"With your life, I'm sure I can come back, Sam," the wraith said excitedly. "There's so much fire in you. I'm sure…this time it will work."

"No." Sam whispered thickly. "No it won't. Even if you kill me…you can't come back."

The wraith leaned down till his face was just inches from Sam's. "Watch me." And he left Sam alone in the darkness.

- - - - -

Dean stopped hammering on the laptop keys long enough to look at his watch again. 12:48 pm. Almost exactly ten hours since Sam had disappeared, seven hours since he'd called his dad. His frustration rose a little more every time he found out what time it was. He pushed the laptop away and stood up, pacing again.

He'd always thought Sam was too quick to judge their dad without the facts. That he had his own reasons for thinking John didn't care that had nothing to do with his actual actions. But now…

Dean kept running his voicemail message through his head, over and over. Had he not made it clear how worried he was? Hadn't he used the words "three days before we find him half-dead"? Their dad should have been here hours ago, if he'd really decided to come. If he'd even heard the message. Sam's voice filled his head, _If he even cares_.

Dean left the hotel and went down the road a ways to the first 24-hour bar he could find. He sat at the counter for an hour, a beer sitting untouched in front of him. He was thinking about the last conversation he and Sam had had, wishing that it hadn't been an argument. He was going to find him, that much he was sure of. Still, he'd have felt better, parting on good terms.

He paid for his drink and left the bar, hands in his pockets. He got into the Impala and drove back to the hotel, mind struggling with the wraith and its victims again. Was it even possible to track this thing? Those four words kept haunting him. _Sam could be anywhere. Sam could be anywhere. _No. It was possible to find this thing. He was going to find it.

Exhausted, he stumbled into the hotel room and flopped onto the sofa. He and Sam had flipped for the bed; Sam had one. It was free now. All the more reason to sleep on the couch. Dean grabbed one of the couch cousins, shoving it under his head, and hit the light switch.

At first he couldn't force himself to rest. _You're no good to Sam half-awake_, he told himself. An hour later, he'd fallen into a restless sleep.

- - - - -

Sam squinted in the darkness, trying to see the alarm clock on the nightstand. 4:0...8? 9? Anyway, about four in the morning. So it wasn't just the wraith that was leaving him so tired. He hadn't slept at all that night. The wraith hadn't returned since that first attack, but Sam couldn't force himself to calm down enough to sleep.

Suddenly, the door creaked loudly through the silence. Sam struggled to lean away from the doorway, as though getting just inches further from the wraith would help him. It glided towards him, hands all ready outstretched, and knelt on the side of the bed, poised over Sam.

"I just thought I'd get a midnight snack," it whispered teasingly.

"Yeah well I recommend Kashi." Sam said flatly, then coughed. "And a TicTac."

The wraith hissed, either in anger or, more likely, excitement and plunged forward, hands landing on Sam's chest. And as the blinding moments screamed past, Sam thought vaguely how Dean would be proud of the his retort. By the time the wraith was finished, however, Sam didn't have the energy to think much of anything.

"Thanks for the warm-up, Sam." As it left the room, Sam lay still on the bed, panting feebly. The thought of staying awake all night, just in case it came back, occurred to him. Then he thought better of it. _You're no good to Dean half-awake_. And once he'd made the decision to sleep, his weary body complied almost instantly.

- - - - -

When Dean woke up, the sun was gushing through the curtains into the hotel room. He sat bolt upright, scrambling for his watch. 9:20 am. He practically flew off the sofa before he realized he wasn't sure what to do next.

He decided to go down the road a ways to a coffee house he'd seen. With a half-pint of caffeine in his system, he made his way slowly back to the hotel, thinking. He spent the morning running a few preliminary tests on the dust Sam had collected from the Wicker house. Once he'd packed it and added it to a salt-water mixture, it scanned a high positive for EMF. So it was definitely remnants of the wraith. Unfortunately, this didn't help him much.

Itching to do something, Dean re-read all the profiles they'd found on the victims. Browsed a few more maps, and found out that the teenager lived almost twelve miles from the high school in which he'd died. Definitely transportation. So far, though, the transports hadn't been far from the person's residence. But that didn't help him either, since he and Sam didn't really live anywhere. Unless it was close to the hotel.

Excited to have any kind of lead, he went back to the library and scanned the newspapers for anything that struck him as a good place to push someone down the stairs. He found about twenty-three. Ticked-off and tired, he decided to do some more investigating on the wraith instead.

Dean pulled out Sam's laptop and double checked all the web-pages he'd found on wraiths the day before. It was mostly stuff Sam had all ready told him, except for one thing. Dean read the page quietly to himself.

"As a wraith feeds, it grows stronger while its victim becomes weaker. It is animal-like in its attacks, seeking the food of a life-force. According to legend, wraiths exhibit some psychic abilities as well, which is how they choose what form to take." Dean growled into his hands. "Dean, you really know how to pick 'um."

There was a knock at the door. Dean froze. He grabbed his gun from his belt automatically, and crossed to the door on silent feet. He pulled back the chamber carefully, reached for the handle, and pausing only briefly, pulled the door open, and swung the gun around.

"I can see I taught you well." The gun fell almost suddenly. Dean stumbled back from the doorway, letting the visitor in. "Hey, Dean."

Dean just stood for a long moment. "I don't believe it…"

"You honestly thought I wouldn't come?"

Dean set his jaw, holding back any emotion that was tempted to bubble to the surface. But he couldn't hide the smile on his face. "It's good to see you, Dad."

- - - - -


	5. Five

- - - - -

Sam's breath came out in spurts, his limbs trembling as the wraith climbed off of him at last. Now that the sun had risen, he could see almost its whole face. He swallowed, his throat dry from breathing hard and a lack of water. The wraith started for the door. "Wait-" it paused in the doorway, not turning. "Who…who are you? What happened to you?"

A low, rumble that sounded something like laughter reverberated off the walls of the dark room. Sam felt the hairs on his neck stand up, and dust settled all around him. Then it whispered, "He killed me." Without another word, it disappeared.

Fatigued, Sam let his head fall onto the mattress again, wondering where Dean was. He knew he'd come, eventually. He'd promised to keep an eye out for him, and Sam could trust him to keep his promises. Dean was much better about that kind of thing than…than some people.

Determined to stay alert this time, Sam stared into the darkness, facing a few more hours of anticipating the wraith's return in utter silence. Dean would stick to his guns. If Dean could do it, he could do it.

- - - - -

"Three o'clock? You're sure."

"Yeah. I went knocking on the door, he didn't reply, I went inside and found this." Dean opened the bathroom door and let his dad have a look at the dust inside. "I tested it and the stuff we got from the Wicker house. Both positive for EMF."

John was all ready nodding. "Oh yeah, this is the wraith I was after all right."

"Well Dad, please tell me you have some idea of how he picks where to lead his victims."

"It has to be somewhere Sam would be willing to go."

Dean tried to swallow his impatience. "Yeah, but if that thing was masquerading as Mom or Jess, he'd go anywhere for them."

"Yeah, you may be right. We need to call Caleb." He pulled out his cell phone and started dialing, Dean coming to stand over his shoulder.

"What does Caleb have to do with any of this?"

"He was helping me with some of this. He knew one of the victims." He paused a moment, letting it ring. Then, "Caleb, it's John. I was hoping you could email me those photos we collected for the wraith hunt…uh-huh…no, send it to Sam's address, I've got his computer here. Yeah…sure…thanks, Caleb. Yeah, you too." He hung up the phone and went to the computer. "He's sending them now."

"You mean you actually got photos of all the victims' houses?"

"Not all of them, but the ones we could find, yes. We even went and took a few ourselves." The inbox blipped, and they leaned closer to the screen as John opened the new email.

They spent the next two hours pouring over about a hundred photos. Some were great quality (taken from police reports), some were lousy (taken from newspapers). Dean's heart sank. He'd never seen a more eclectic set of locations in his life. They all had stairs, true, but all of different styles, types, qualities, formations. Then there was the high school and the tree-house. None of it fit together.

John seemed to be following the same train of thought. "I think we need to go have a talk with Simone, see if she remembers anything."

"Yeah, Sam and I were going to, but the hospital wouldn't let us back in. But I could give Todd a call."

John nodded and grabbed his coat. "All right, let's go." Dean followed suit, looking quickly down at his watch. John glanced at him. "Don't you worry about your brother. We'll find him."

Dean nodded . "Yeah, it's just…he's been there for twenty-six hours…" he shrugged, unwilling to finish his sentence.

"Well," John closed the laptop, put it in its bag and slung it over his shoulder . "Then let's get a move-on."

- - - - -

"Hey, Simone," Dean said as they approached her hospital bed carefully.

Simone smiled. "Todd told me you and your brother came to visit. Thanks, by the way, that's sweet."

Dean jabbed a finger over his shoulder. "Oh, yeah, this is actually my dad. Dad, this is Simone." John nodded. "Uh…yeah, my brother, he uh- he sort of disappeared." Todd and Simone looked at him. "And we think that whatever took you is what kidnapped him. So we were hoping maybe you could help us. You know, see what you remember."

Simone looked apologetically at Dean's expectant face, then to John, then back to Dean. "I…really don't remember anything."

"Not when you were abducted, just what happened before." Dean sat on the edge of her bed. "When you kept seeing Chase, do you remember that?" She nodded slowly. "What did you think when you saw him, Simone?"

She stared at him for a long moment, then past him, into her own thoughts. "I felt…safe. I knew Chase would never hurt me, so I wasn't afraid. I was happy to see him. And then he'd just- disappear."

"Disappear." John came to stand beside her bed, and knelt down to her level. "Not walk away?"

"No, he'd just vanish."

"And what if he did walk away, Simone? Would you have followed him?"

She thought a moment. Then, "Yeah…yeah, I probably would. Though-" she laughed, tears forming in her eyes. "That would have turned out to be one of my worse ideas, I guess. Since it turned out that thing- that spirit or whatever it was, that's what took off with me. What nearly- nearly killed me…" her voice faded off, chocked off by tears. Todd rubbed her hand soothingly, and she smile through her tears.

Dean gave her a moment to collect herself, then pressed forward gently. "Simone, have you ever been to the Wicker house before?"

"No," she said firmly. "But I always wanted to. It looked so old and mysterious, I guess. I'm sorta into mysterious stuff. I'm kind of a freak."

John grinned. "That's okay, Simone, Dean here's a freak too." He slapped his son on the back, and Dean shrugged and gave no indication of denying it. Simone smiled again, the tears fading. "I just have one more question, if that's okay?" She nodded. "May I ask how Chase died?"

Simone sniffled. Todd handed her a Kleenex, and she said shakily, "He was uh…he was driving back from college to see me, and he hit another car head-on. The guy in the other car dozed off or something I guess, and he wasn't looking."

"Where was that?"

"Like…seven miles from my house."

"Did you ever see the wreckage?"

"Huh-uh, I didn't-" she sniffled again. "I didn't want to."

Dean nodded, trying to smile in that I-know-how-you-feel sort of way, and wishing Sam were here to do it for him. "Thanks for all your help, Simone. You'll tell us if you remember anything, right? Thanks, Simone."

They left the hospital in silence. Once they'd climbed into the Impala, Dean spoke. "So. Another dead end."

"I don't know about that." John opened the laptop, clicking around for a few minutes. Then, "I knew it. Look," he spun it around and Dean leaned over to have a look.

"That's Chase's accident?"

"Uh-huh, look in the background there."

Dean's eyes widened. "The Wicker house."

John nodded. "So whoever that wraith is, I'm going to bet it showed up looking like someone Sam used to know and then took him to wherever that person died. Now my guess is, Sam would only follow Mary or Jess, so-"

"So do we go to Lawrence or Stanford?"

"If the wraith's keeping Sam, he's got to be hiding out somewhere no one would find him for three days."

Dean nodded, catching on. "Okay, I'll give Jenny a call. You call the university."

- - - - -

Dean paced the front porch of his hotel room, thumb drumming on the back of his cell phone as it rang over and over. Finally, "Hello!"

"Hello, Jenny it's-"

"You've reached the voicemail of-" Dean flipped the phone shut, paused, then dialed again.

"C'mon, Jenny, c'mon…" He held it to his ear, listened to it ring again.

"Hello!" Dean paused. "Hello?"

He practically jumped. "Jenny?"

"Yes, who's-"

"It's Dean, Dean Winchester."

"Oh my- Dean, how are you? It's so good to hear from you. How's Sam?"

"Well, uh…that's sort of what I- umn, Jenny, you haven't seen anything weird lately, have you? I mean-"

"You mean have we had any more evil poltergeists infesting our house?" She laughed in a way that indicated she'd long-since gotten over the whole ordeal. "No, Dean, we're doing okay. But thanks for checking in."

"So the house, the house is okay? Nothing weird?"

"Not…last I checked. Is everything okay?"

Dean sighed. "Uh, no. Look, if you hear from Sam, would you let me know?"

"Uh- yeah, sure. You bet."

"All right. Thanks, Jenny. Bye." He ended the call and stood silently for a few moments. Then he went back. "Dad, I hope you found something useful."

John came out of the bedroom looking triumphant. "Room 26D has been vacant ever since the fire."

"Since the fire…since Jess died?" He nodded. "Oh man, that makes perfect sense," Dean growed, hitting himself on the forehead. "There's like five flights of stairs in that place."

John couldn't hide his excitement any more than Dean could. "We're goin' to California."

"All right." Dean looked down at his watch, and blinked hard. "Woah. Almost ten o'clock. Sam's only got forty hours left, and the drive-"

"I can make the drive in fifteen." John smacked him on the shoulder, determined. "C'mon. I'll drive."

"No, I want to." Dean pulled out his keys.

"Son, the Impala's a great car. But I can make much better time in the truck."

Dean paused a moment, then nodded, pocketing his keys. "Okay. But I still wanna drive."

- - - - -

Just a little more- just a few strands. Sam's wrists ached, and his left one was beginning to bleed, but he kept at the knots. After working with it for hours, he'd managed to wear almost through by running it up and down the bedpost. Finally, he heard it snap, and his body relaxed momentarily. Then he swung around, going after the other wrist with his free hand.

Soon, he jumped off the bed, landing in a pool of dust inches thick. He looked around the dark room, seeing it really for the first time. He rant to the door, jimmied the knob, and realized that it was of course locked. So he crossed to the window and tried the latch. Also locked. It was pitch black outside, so he still couldn't figure out where exactly he was.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, trying to think. The dust in the air made him feel groggy, but he fought to come up with a strategy. He was sitting, head in his hands, when he noticed a leather bag lying on the floor. Curious, he picked it up and realized the leather was cracked and faded. Very old. Gingerly, he opened the top flap and after the cloud of dust that came from it cleared, he saw a thin stack of yellowing papers inside. He pulled them out, and spread them on the dusty bed.

There was an obituary from the newspaper for a young women named Rachel Lindsey who'd died of leukemia, leaving a son, a daughter and her husband, George Lindsey behind. There was a copy of the eulogy spoken at her funeral and an old brown-and-white photo of what Sam assumed was her. But what really intrigued him was an old letter, still sealed up in a pale envelope. He broken the seal, tugging the letter out, and read quietly to himself:

_Dad,_

_You weren't there. I don't know why, but I thought you would be. Maybe because you promised you would. I can barely write this letter. You ought to hear this in person, have to see the disappointed on mine and Celia's faces. The heartbreak. Has it slipped your notice that we have just lost our mother? You weren't there for her last days, and I'll never forgive you for that. But to miss her funeral is an unforgivable insult to her memory. I hate you for it. I'll always hate you for not being there when I needed you most._

_- Your son_

Something clicked in Sam's mind. Stunned, he gently returned the letter to its envelope. "Sounds like…" he whispered, but didn't feel comfortable finishing. He was nothing like this wraith. He'd never told his father he hated him. Ever. But something inside him seemed to turn cold. He slipped all the papers back into the satchel, and sat in silence for a long time.

- - - - -


	6. Six

- - - - -

"Dean?" Dean's head jerked up and he kicked himself mentally. He'd been glazing over at the wheel, how stupid was he?

"Sorry," he muttered, sitting up straight and staring resolutely down at the highway ahead of him.

John watched him for a little while before looking out the window. "How much sleep did you get?"

"I got a few hours, I'm okay." The dead silence that followed sounded unconvinced. "Really, I'm fine. You didn't really expect me to get the full eight hours of shut-eye with Sam missing, did you?"

His father shook his head. "No. Nah, I guess I didn't. But Dean I'm not fond of the idea of waking up in a ditch. Maybe I should take the wheel for awhile-"

"No." Dean shifted around his seat, blinking blearily and trying to look alert. "No, I'm good."

John didn't say anything, but a few minutes later, he pointed to an exit sign. "Get off here."

"But we're supposed to keep to I80 till-"

"Just do it." Dean spun the wheel and pulled off onto the exit just in time. They trundled down an out-of-the-way-looking dirt road for a ways, then saw business up ahead. The sun was beginning to rise as John instructed Dean to pull up to a gas station. Dean glanced at the meter, but John put a warm hand on his shoulder. "We're fine on fuel. I'm getting you some coffee."

"Dad, I said I'm okay."

"I know it. But if you're going to insist on driving my truck, I'd like you to be awake. You and the truck will thank me for it later."

Dean grinned. "Okay." John got out and started for the store when Dean leaned out the window. "Hey Dad." He turned. "Thanks."

John just smiled and went inside. As he closed the door behind him, he saw Dean rubbing the sleep from his eyes once he thought his dad wasn't watching. John felt a twinge of pride. Dean could hide a lot of things, but his concern for his kid brother wasn't one of them.

John approached the counter and asked the perky-looking gal behind it for a black coffee. He tapped his fingers on the counter, thoughts elsewhere as she prepared it for him.

On the long drive so far, Dean had only asked him one question: "What if Sam's not there?" John had brushed it off, insisting it had to be Stanford or Lawrence, and they'd all ready confirmed from Jenny it couldn't be the latter. But in John's own mind, he'd asked the same question countless times. It was hit-or-miss. If they reached Stanford and Sam wasn't there, they'd be at a dead-end with only 24 hours left.

"Sir?" John jumped from his reverie to find the girl behind the counter watching him, concerned.

He smiled and took the cup of coffee, pulling out his wallet. "Sorry. What does that come to?"

As he stepped out into the parking lot, he realized the sun was rising. Time was ticking. He went to the driver's side of the car. "Dean, I was thinking if we-" He stopped. Dean's head was leaning against the side of the door, his hands still dangling limply from the steering wheel. John sighed, reaching through the window and over his son's lap to put the coffee in the cup-holder. Dean jerked away as he did this, looking disoriented.

"Wha- Dad. Sorry, I guess I…" He rubbed his eyes furiously, making a grab for the coffee. John pulled the door open and Dean sat there looking perplexed. "What?"

John flicked his hand at him. "Scoot, boy."

"Hey, you said-"

"Yeah, I know what I said but I said it before you dozed off. Dean, you're tough as nails, but you're no good to your brother half-awake. C'mon, move over."

Reluctantly, Dean moved to the passenger seat and let his dad climb in behind the wheel. "If we get there by three, we'll still have twenty-four hours of buffer-room."

John nodded, slamming the door and revved the engine. "We take I80 all the way to Route 95, we'll be there with plenty of time to spare. Now you go to sleep."

Dean sat, arms crossed, staring stoically out the window for the next hour. John quit glancing at him, realizing there was no way he was actually going to sleep. But when they were about halfway through Nevada, he looked over at him again, and his head was leaning against the seat, eyes closed. John took a drink of Dean's coffee, and smiled to himself, pushing the gas a little harder.

- - - - -

Sam would wish for hours to follow that he'd noticed when the door behind him opened. Unfortunately, his first clue that the wraith had entered the room was when the creature's arm wrapped around his neck. Sam struggled, his feet thrashing, hands probing for the wraith's face. It leaned forward, and breathed harshly into his ear, "How…dare you!" then hurled Sam across the room.

Sam hit the wall, denting it, and slumped to the floor. Normally, he'd have a lot more fight in him than this, but the wraith's feedings for the past two days had drained him considerably. He stumbled to his feet, searching frantically for anything that resembled a weapon.

The wraith raced across the room towards him just as he made a grab for the phone on the nightstand. With all the energy in him, he brought it down over the creature's head, and it crumpled to the floor, hissing.

Sam took his chance and made a break for the door, throwing it open. He found himself standing at the end of a familiar hallway, looking down familiar stairs. His eyes widened. His heart pounded like thunder in his ears. "Dean…I really hope you're thinking outside the box right now."

Sam ran down the stairs as fast as he could manage, both the thick dust and carpet muffling his footsteps. His head spun, the walls around him seemed to tip and sway and the floor felt as though it was bouncing under his feet. But he almost made it. The wraith came from nowhere, landing on his back, claws digging into his shoulder. Sam cried out, falling the rest of the way down the stairs.

The wraith howled as they hit the floor at the bottom but quickly rose to its feet. Without pausing, it struck Sam across the face. His head snapped to the side, a thin trail of blood sliding down his cheek. It hit him again, and twice more, before standing back. Sam coughed and blood spattered the carpet beside him.

With cracked and dusty hands, the wraith collected a coil of rope from his tattered robes, wrapping it around Sam's wrists a few times. Then it began the tedious and painful task of dragging him back up the stairs. Sam's shoulder's ached with the strain, but he couldn't find it in him to fight back.

They reached the top of the stairs, leaving drag-marks inches deep in the dust behind them. The wraith hauled him off the floor and threw him onto the bed, securing his wrists to one of the bedposts again. All the while it hissed incoherently its musty breath. It was veritable whirlwind of all the emotions that had become a haunting.

Sam's breath was heavy, his throat still sore with blood, but he managed to say, "If you kill me, you'll still be dead."

It stood before him, trembling. "I was dead the day I was killed." And then, inevitably, it jumped onto his chest. The next half-hour faded in Sam's mind. When the wraith finally left him alone, perhaps an hour later, all he could remember was a blur of something cold and painful that seemed to have latched onto his whole body and wouldn't let go.

- - - - -

"No, no I'm glad you called…uh-huh. So you're sure? I mean it's…well, yeah, but if this is really the Colt, then any lead's better than none."

Dean sat up slowly, blinking as the afternoon sun burned down on the side of his face. He looked to the side and saw John was on the phone. "Who is it?" He said automatically, but John was wrapped up in his conversation.

"Yeah, I have his address. San Jose, right? Okay…Jim, I can't thank you enough. Yeah, you too. I'll tell them. Bye." He shut his phone, and glanced over at Dean. "Mornin' sleepy head."

Dean ran a hand over his hair, sitting up straight in his seat, still trying to wake up. "Was that Pastor Jim?"

John nodded. "He's got a possibly big lead on the demon." Dean watched him for a long moment, then looked away without responding. John seemed to know what he was thinking. "We're going after Sammy first, don't you worry. And as it happens, the contact I need to talk to is in San Jose. We'll be just a few hours from there anyway."

Dean nodded, his mind settling. Then something else he'd been wanting to bring up came to his mind. He glanced at John. "We forgot again, you know. This makes two years in a row."

John kept his eyes on the road. "I really don't think he cares anymore."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dad, Sammy always cared about that stuff."

"What were we supposed to do? Get him a puppy?"

Dean didn't reply at first. Then, "Look, it's no big deal to me either, but it matters to Sam. I could see it on his face. Could you just do me a favor?"

John sighed reluctantly, then nodded. "Yeah, sure." Dean reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a blue envelope and a pen, handing them to his dad. John took the items with one hand and glanced at Dean. "What's this?"

"You can take a look when we get there. How far out are we?"

"Give me another hour, we'll be pulling into the Stanford parking lot."

- - - - -

Dean strolled up to the campus gate like he was on his way to the grocery store. His arms were swinging, and the laptop bag on his shoulder bounced off his leg with every step. "Hey," he said, approaching the guard at the gate. "Umn, I totally forgot to park in the student parking. I sorta just got my car and I forgot there was a lot I was supposed to put it in."

"I suggest you go re-park you vehicle in the correct lot, sir."

Dean shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Uh, yeah. Here's the thing, I have a class in like ten minutes, and if I'm late handing in my paper again, my debate teacher swears he'll fail me."

The guard watched him unblinkingly. "Who's your debate teacher?"

"Professor Schwartz." Dean leaned forward as though relaying a secret, "I mean I know the guy's a genius and all, but man you should see the amount of homework he gives us, it's like the Leaning Tower of flippin' Pisa."

Still hesitant, the guard asked for his student ID. Dean held it up quickly, being sure to hold his index finger over Sam's picture. The guard squinted at it a moment, then nodded. "Very well, Sam Winchester, I suggest you park in the right lot next time if you intend on passing debate class."

Dean wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead and stuffed the ID into his laptop bag. "Thanks, man, when I'm a successful lawyer, you won't regret this."

The guard smiled and opened the gate for him. "Thanks kid, but I'll probably hire someone who tucks his shirt in."

Dean ran through the gate, making a b-line for the study building. Once he was out of the guard's sight, he made a u-turn and broke for the student sign-in building. No one was there, of course, and he slid Sam's student ID through the door leading to the student parking, and pulled it open. John was waiting on the other side. He grinned. "I don't believe it. Dean Winchester, the frat boy."

Dean ignored him. "You have the stuff we need?"

"Here you go." John handed him a small, strangely rounded submachine gun. Dean looked up.

"A P90? Are you serious?"

"It's the only thing that stuns them. Knock them out for two, three minutes…give us enough time to figure out how to kill it."

Dean nodded and loaded the boxy cartridge into his gun. "Let's go."

The two of them raced across the campus and it didn't take long before they found the tall, brick building Dean recognized as the student apartments. He pulled out Sam's card again and slid it through the door. "Good thing Sam kept his ID," John said quietly as they slipped inside the building.

"Good thing I was half-listening when he was droning about all his least-favorite teachers in this place," Dean murmured, closing the door behind them. "I think he whined about old Schwartz for a half-hour."

They ran up the five flights of stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. By the time they reached the door marked 26D, Dean's heart was pounding twice as hard. He glanced at his dad. "Ready?"

John just nodded and hit the door squarely on the latch. It flew opened, and Dean and John both ran inside, guns raised.

Before them lay a great, empty shell of a room. The burnt remains of walls and doorways stood like gray pieces of that had been paper propped up and held together with tape. Everything looked scorched and unfixable. They ran all the way through the living room, swinging around corners with their guns, scanning all the back rooms for any sign of anyone. But it was completely abandoned.

John was the first to realize this, though he stood staring at the empty room with a vacant expression, as though he couldn't bring himself to accept it. Dean, without pausing, ran through the apartment's four rooms. John sat slowly down on the floor as Dean's voice echoed through the abandoned apartment.

"Sam? Sammy! Talk to me, Sam. Sam!"

"Dean," John said at last, and heard his son enter what was left of the living room. "He's not here."

Dean clenched his jaw. "Then where is he."

John shook his head, holding back all his emotions, looking up at Dean with bewildered honesty. "I don't know."

Dean threw the P90 on the floor and it struck the wood harshly. "That's not possible!"

"Dean."

"Where is he?!"

John stood up, retrieving the battered P90 off the floor, and grabbing Dean by the shoulders. Dean shook him off, walking to the window. "Dean, we've still got-"

"Twenty-one hours and twenty minutes," Dean muttered, still facing the window.

"We just need to cool off and go over this again."

"Oh would you stop being all control-freak?" Dean demanded angrily, turning at last. "Stop acting like you've got this all covered, Dad, you're just as lost as I am!"

"Dean." John's voice was firm and Dean allowed himself to listen. "We are not going to help Sammy if we lose it every time we hit a wall. We still have time left, and we need to use it. Hear me?"

Dean paused, the fire extinguishing in his eyes. Finally he nodded, looking down at his shoes. "Yes sir."

"Good. Now." John threw him his gun. "Let's not do this here. Classes will be out any minute and we don't want a bunch of students seeing us. C'mon," he said, his tone softening for the first time. "Let's get back to the truck and rethink this thing."

- - - - -


	7. Seven

- - - - -

"Can you think of anyone else Sam knows who died?"

Dean just shook his head numbly. "Just Mom and Jess. He would have been suspicious of anyone else." He looked over at the driver's seat where John was sitting. "Is it possible we're wrong about the place-of-death thing? I mean maybe the wraith can lead him anywhere."

John shook his head. "All the other victims fit that MO. Even the kid who fell out of the tree-house was going after a cat who'd died of rabies in there."

"So…it had to be Stanford or Lawrence." He took the computer out of its bag, booting it up and smacking away at the keys. "Where'd you put the photos of the victims' houses?"

"It's on the desktop in a folder."

"The one called 'From Caleb'?"

"That's the one." Dean double-clicked on the folder and started scrawling through the images again, eyes dancing over the screen. "Having a thought?"

"Not really, just thought I'd take another look."

"Well I am." Dean looked up at him expectantly. "May I?" John reached for the laptop, and Dean let go immediately. "I was just thinking…there's still got to be something, something that's making this thing choose the victims it chooses, right? A common denominator."

"Yeah, Sam and I thought it through, there's just nothing in common besides the stairs."

"Well, what about the stairs?" Dean made what he hoped was his most out-to-sea expression. John continued, "Do they have anything in common?"

"Not a thing. All different kinds of wood, different makes, different years…nothing."

"What about steps?"

"What?"

John ran his index finger down one of the photos, then went to the next photo, counting under his breath. Then to the tree-house, the high school, a couple houses. "Holy Alucard."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Holy what?"

"Twenty-three steps. Every one of them, look." Dean leaned over, counting the steps in his head. And then, suddenly, something cold and unsettling went down his spin, like someone had tipped a glass of ice water down his shirt. His eyes shot to John.

"Dad…how many stairs from the top floor of our house to the living room?"

"I don't remember."

"What's the area-code for Kansas?" Dean demanded, and began to rummage frantically through his pockets for his cell phone.

"785." John looked worried. "What's wrong?"

Dean continued to dig around in his pockets, muttering, "Where is it, where is it?!"

"Dean," John leaned across the seat, grabbing his son by the elbow. "Calm down. What is it?"

He finally found what he was looking for: A crumpled piece of paper with the name "Jenny" at the top and phone number under it. Dean held the paper in front of him, hand shaking. "Her cell."

"What?"

"Her cell! Her cell phone, I called her cell phone!" Dean shouted as he pounded the number in. He waited with shaky breath as the other end rang.

"This is Jenny."

"Jenny it's Dean again."

He heard her laugh. "Miss me all ready? You know Sari keeps asking me when you and Sam will-"

"Jenny this is going to sound really nosy," he glanced at John. "But where are you?"

"Boston." Dean froze, fear collecting behind his eyes. "Dean?"

"You're not home?" He felt his dad look at him, the same alarm he was feeling showing on John's face.

"No, I'm visiting my sister. We've been up here for the week, we're heading back down day-after-tomorrow. Dean…what's wrong?"

When he spoke, he fought to keep his voice calm. "Nothing. Never mind…thanks, Jenny." He ended the call.

For several long moments, neither of them could think what to say. Just as John opened his mouth, Dean began to speak. His voice sounded vague and strangely quiet. "I remember Sammy telling me it was going to be a real pain making it home for Christmas the first year he went to Stanford. Said it took thirty-one hours to drive from California to Kansas. I knew it was a lousy excuse, but he wasn't lying about the distance. I checked." He put his head in his hands, trying to pull himself together. "We can't drive, we'll never make it."

John nodded slowly. "Go call the airport. See what kind of flights we can get to Kansas. Near to Lawrence as you can get."

Dean swallowed hard, "Yes sir." and jumped out of the car, all ready dialing 411 on his phone. He heard the driver's side door slam and looked up. "Dad?"

John was pacing away from the car with his own phone. "I'm going to give Jim a call."

Dean just nodded and requested a listing for the nearest airport. "Santa Clara? How far is that from Stanford…ten minutes. Okay, thanks. Put me through."

- - - - -

The wraith had left and returned more times than Sam could count anymore. He wasn't sure how long ago he'd been kidnapped, though he was fairly certain he'd seen two sunsets so far and was headed towards his third. At which point, if Dean and his research had been correct, the wraith would be throwing him down the stairs to his statistically-likely death.

Sam fiddled with the knots around his wrists some more, but he was gradually losing the energy to do much of anything but lie there, hoping Dean would figure this thing out. How likely was it that the clues would lead him back to Lawrence? He didn't even know that Sam had followed a vision of their mom here, not a vision of himself. All reason was against anyone finding him before it was too late and yet he couldn't bring himself to be afraid. Something in him kept insisting that Dean would solve the mystery. Through all their hunts together, Dean had always been smart and calculating, never too rash or too emotional. He had to trust that that wouldn't change now.

The door creaked open, the air thickened with dust, and Sam's body shuddered in anticipation as the wraith climbed smoothly up onto the bed. "Soon, Sam," it whispered. "Soon I'll have my life back. I've taken almost everything in you, but there's still some left. Some things you're holding onto that you need to let me keep."

"Dry up, you freak." It wasn't terribly impressive. Dean would have probably teased him for the pathetic endeavor, but Sam felt better for sounding more certain than he felt. "You won't come back. You never have, you never will. And you're certainly not going to use my life."

"We'll see, Sam." And as the wraith leaned in, its eyes became deep and green. Familiar. Its hideous mouth took form, its ancient hands became smooth with delicate nails. Soon it was Mary Winchester sitting beside Sam, and as her fingers reached out to him, he almost wanted her to touch him. But he gritted his teeth and pulled away.

"Get away from me."

"Sam," Mary entreated, "it's all right. It's not going to hurt much longer, I promise. But Dean's not coming."

He clenched his jaw. "Yes he is."

Mary traced a finger down his cheek. "No he's not, Sam. Do you know why? Because I've been keeping an eye on him. I've been watching him. And he went the wrong way, Sam. He made a terrible mistake and now he's in California, and it's too late for him to make it here on time."

"I don't believe you." Sam raised his eyebrows, daring her to convince him otherwise.

"He called your father. But John didn't come." Something on Sam's face registered belief, and the wraith knew it. It pressed on, "Dean can't come and your father won't. You're all alone, Sam. And if you give in to me…it'll be far less painful."

She kissed him gently on the forehead and he cringed, feeling the dry, musty air of an abandoned attic come flowing from her lips. "Give up, Sammy…you can do it. Just give up."

Suddenly, Sam's feet flew up, catching the wraith in the midsection and hurling it off the bed. He clenched his teeth. "Don't. Call me Sammy." He scrambled into a sitting position, and started working at the knots around his hands again. Between the wraith's feedings and the lack of water for the last two days, adrenaline was the only thing that kept him moving. The knots gave way, and he whirled.

The form of Mary rose from the floor, dust clinging to her white nightgown. "Don't bother Sam." She jumped forward, hands going for his throat. Sam fell back onto the bed, chocking. "Don't struggle. Don't…struggle…" Her hands probed his neck, siphoning life from his veins. "That's it…" she breathed as his body went lax. "That's it, Sam. That's my boy."

When the wraith climbed off him this time, now in its real form, it seemed reluctant. "I'm almost finished. Almost alive." Sam looked blearily at it. It smiled coolly back at him. "We're almost done, Sam. Not long now." He climbed onto the bed again, tying Sam's right wrist to the right bedpost, his left to the left bedpost. Sam let him. He didn't have the strength to do anything else.

"I'll be back in a little while to finish you off. I can't thank you enough. Sammy." And it laughed, shrill and hoarse and swept from the room.

Everything in Sam ached and trembled. His body was running out of life, drained like a battery. All ready, his chest fought to rise and fall, as though dust had collected in his respiratory system. Maybe it had.

"Dean," he whispered at the ceiling. "If you're gonna bail me out again…now would be good."

- - - - -

"Found one!" Dean came running back to the truck, where John was standing, deep in thought. "Non-stop flight from Santa Clara to Dodge City. Now the Red Eye leaves at ten tonight, so we'd get to Dodge City at like seven in the morning, but we rent a car instead of taking the bus, we can get to Lawrence in five hours if we speed." It was only when he stopped talking, still out of breath, when he realized the look on John's face. "Dad, what?"

John just looked at him, hesitant. Dean knew that look well. He was about to tell him something he was going to have a very hard time excepting. John shrugged, almost desperately. "I have to go." Dean's head started to shake in both denial and disbelief. "I talked to Jim, he said…the guy in San Jose won't be there tomorrow. He says if I want the information, I gotta go meet him tonight."

"What time?"

"Midnight."

"Well…" Dean tapped his forehead with the cell phone, trying to think. "We check San Jose for-"

"I checked for non-stop flights out of San Jose, nothing's going within twenty-four hours of Lawrence tonight."

"Dad." He could feel his resolve slipping. "You're not really going to…you can't just take off, not when we need you on this."

"You know where it is, you know how to keep it at bay." He tossed the P90 to Dean who caught it, still not taking his eyes off him. "Dean, I wouldn't send you if I didn't think you could do it."

"You can't just play poker with Sam's life, Dad!" Dean shouted, slamming the P90 onto the truck's hood.

"Sam would want me to pursue this," John said sternly. "Dean if he were here, he'd say take the risk. We push ourselves to the limit daily just trying to get one scrap of evidence on this demon. Finally a possible lead is staring me in the face, what do you think Sam would say if it were you out there?"

"He'd remind you that that thing sucks people dry. And you don't take risks when something like that's got a hold of your own kid." Dean clenched his teeth and looked away. Then he laughed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "You know it's funny. Sammy said your priorities were all screwed up, and I didn't want to believe him. I guess…" He shook his head.

"Dean. Listen to me." John leaned against the hood of the car, arms crossed. "I…don't like it. No, I hate it. I never wanted to send you boys into this life, especially alone. But some things are worth taking risks for. You're just gonna have to trust me when I say this is one of those things."

"Dad…" Dean's voice cracked a little as he spoke. "If I get there too late, if I can't kill that thing…you're gonna find yourself thinking how it'd be worth it to never find that demon, if you could get Sam back." He shrugged. "If you think you can live with that, then yeah. I'll go alone. This…this family's worth it to me."

Dean turned his back on him then and climbed into the passenger seat. As he did, John grabbed the P90 and got in behind the wheel. They stared for Santa Clara in silence. When they reached the airport, Dean got out, grabbed a few choice weapons from the back of the truck, and stuffed them in an old duffel. Then he started for the terminal doors.

"Dean!" Dean turned and found John standing uncertainly outside of the truck. "This family means a lot to me too. That's why I have to go after this thing. It's for you and Sam and…and for your mother." His eyes were pleading as he added, "You just…have to believe that."

Dean just stared back at him for moment, then nodded. "I'll see you, Dad."

"And Dean."

"Yeah."

"Call me when you get to Lawrence." Dean gave him a thumbs up, and went inside.

The following five hours were the slowest and longest that Dean had ever endured. He got coffee three times, went looking for a bar but the only one he found was unbelievably crowded, so he settled for sitting near his gate and staring into space, duffel over his shoulder, ticket in his hand.

He didn't like any of the topics on his mind (his dad, Sam, the wraith, what the wraith was doing to Sam, how the heck he was going to kill the wraith, the fact that he was about to get onto a plane…) so he chose not to think about anything. What felt like an eternity later, they made the first boarding-call for the 10:00 flight to Dodge City. He practically jumped out of seat and made a break for the gate.

It was about when he sat down in seat 22A that he realized he was on a plane. Familiar tingles of dread sank into him all of a sudden, and he clutched the armrests, shut his eyes, and started humming the first song that came to mind ("Good Times, Bad Times"). The plane's engines revved and the floor tilted underneath him. He started smacking the back of his head against the seat rhythmically.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Dean squinted up at the perky-looking stewardess leaning over him, and for once couldn't care less how cute her hair was. "Actually, if you could not talk to me so I can try and pretend like I'm not here, that'd be really really great," he bit out, wincing as the plane hit some turbulence.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Nope," he said tightly. "Good. Thanks for askin'."

"I can bring you some soda, it might-"

"Lady!" Dean exclaimed, eyes snapping open. "I'm a lousy flyer, okay? And maybe if my brother were here he'd keep me from biting your head off, but he's not so I'll thank you to flipping leave me alone! Can you do that?" He glanced at her tag. "Tracy?"

Tracy nodded, eyebrows raised, and said in her most 'let's all calm down now' voice, "Uh-huh, sure. Just let me know if you need anything. There's a call button right there, and all you have to do is press it, okay?"

Dean gave her a forced smile. "Would you stop trying to help me, Tracy." So she left him alone. Dean sighed, running a sweaty hand over his hair. "Sam," he muttered out the window. "You better not go and get yourself killed before I get there. I'll never forgive you for making me fly all the way to Lawrence just to pick up your sorry carcass from the morgue." And he shut his eyes, hoping if the turbulence got bad enough, the luggage would start falling out of the bins like in the movies, and he'd get hit on the head or something. Cause there was no way he was getting any kind of sleep otherwise.

- - - - -


	8. Eight

- - - - -

John looked at his watch. Again. 12:13 am. Jose was officially late. He ran through Jim's words in his head. "Meet him at midnight sharp by the trash-bins behind his house in San Jose." This was Jose's current address, and he'd been standing behind the trash-bins since 11:58.

John waited awhile longer, then at 12:16 decided to take a look around. He checked carefully around the corner of the house, and saw no one. He crossed to the front door. Strangely, the bugler light didn't turn on. John pulled a few pins out of his pocket, ready to pick the lock, when he saw something was taped to the door. A note. He pulled it off, and read quickly, heart racing.

_John,_

_The information was faulty. I don't know how it happened, I think my contact was gotten to. By what or how long ago, I don't know, but everything they've told me since was an attempt to lead me the wrong way._

_I'm sorry I didn't show. I could not face you. Tell Jim Murphy how sorry I am for this misstep. Remember what you told me: Some of the most disheartening dead-ends are the doorway to new discovery. This could be such a doorway. I'm now attempting to track down my contact, if they're still alive. Maybe whoever got to them could be tracked and lead us to a new clue._

_Keep up hope, my friend. Hope you and the boys are okay._

_-- Jose_

John crumpled the paper in his fist, hands trembling, and one thought ran through his head. His voice shook. "Sammy."

- - - - -

"How long is that going to take, do you think?"

"Sir, I told you I can't know for sure till I take a look, all right?"

"Estimate it for me. Just- just for the hey of it."

"Maybe an hour?"

"An hour?" Dean groaned into his hands. The man behind the counter watched him nervously. "I don't have an hour," he bit out. "I don't have a half-hour. I've had a lousy flight, I didn't sleep at all and now it's-" He looked down at his watch, blinking hard. "It's eight-thirty in the morning, and I need to get to Lawrence in the next five hours, okay? Minimum."

"Sir, even if we could get you a faster car in the next twenty minutes, you won't get there in anything under six hours. But I'll see what I can do, all right? I'll be right back." He disappeared into the back room, and Dean stood, glaring around the lobby of Dodge County Regional Airport.

Unable to wait another moment, Dean abandoned the car rental idea, and went outside, eyes scanning the parking lot. Then he saw it: Mustang. Flashy, slick and bright red. His eyebrows went up. "Woah." If memory served, hotwiring a Stang wasn't much different from the Impala. He reached into the duffel and rummaged through the few weapons and fake permits till he found a wire hanger. Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he slid it beside the window, jimmied it a bit, and soon the lock gave way. And so did the alarm.

Dean jumped into the car, hand scrambling under the dashboard for the right wires. Finally, he silenced the alarm, gave a few passersby his best "my bad" expression, and then dove under the dashboard again. Hotwiring always sounded easier than it was, but he prided himself on certain models. As luck would have it, the Mustang was one of them. Soon the engine roared to life and Dean sat up, opening the shade to block the rising sun from his face. As he did so, he heard a jingle, and something metal hit him on the knee and bounced onto the floor. A spare key.

Minutes later, still kicking himself, Dean took off down Route 56 and pushed 80 MPH till he saw a highway patrol, and slowed to 70.

- - - - -

Sam cried out with everything in him. Just when he thought he couldn't handle anymore, it would find new vestiges of power inside him. It pulled at every ounce of adrenaline, every spec of awareness.

"I know what you're thinking," Jess whispered, hands on his shoulders. "This can't possibly last much longer. But it can, Sam. If you don't let go, it'll never end…"

Her fingers had ripped tiny holes in the shoulders of his shirt, small spots of blood showing through the torn fabric. The vision of Jess hovering over him, pulling the life from him, it made him sick. The wraith had given up on being Mary a little while ago. This impression of Jess hurt even more.

"F-freak…" Sam spat at it, glad to see an angry glow, so malicious (so unlike Jess) peaking through the wraith's dark eyes.

"Like you, Sam?" Jess asked him as she released his shoulders, and he gasped, feeling tiny strands of consciousness returning. "You're just like I was. Bitter. Angry." She leaned in, elbows pressing on the sore skin on his chest. Dust trailed from her lips as she spoke. "A father who doesn't care. That's what killed me. And now that John's not coming, Sam, it'll kill you too."

"I'm…nothing…like you," Sam panted, shaking his head weakly.

She watched him a long moment, then nodded at the alarm clock on the nightstand. "2:30, Sam. You've got a half-hour." She ran a finger down his neck. "Then I'll be finished with you, and you'll be a shell and I'll be alive. I'll do the things to my father that you could not. The things that will make him never hurt me again." As it spoke, Jess' form disappeared, becoming the tattered, rotting wraith. His form was more complete than ever now. He looked like a boy in an old, dead man's body. "I'll be a better man for it, Sam Winchester."

_It can't finish me off, _Sam thought. _It has to throw me down the stairs._ But his whole body trembled, his muscles ached, and he knew there was no way he'd survive the fall.

But an unreasonable spirit was the hardest to stop, and Sam knew it. Fear rose in his throat and the dark body leaned over him, fingers poised. "Scream for all you're worth," it hissed into his face. "Give me the last bit of power I need."

- - - - -

Dean had never been so glad to see that painfully familiar house in his whole life. He wrenched the Mustang to a stop, and before the engine had died down, he leapt from the car, grabbing his duffel. He tore it open, snatched up the P90 in one hand, a 9 millimeter in the other, and ran for the house.

His heart sounded like thunder in his ears as he kicked the door in and ran inside. All the curtains were drawn, so the house looked dark and deserted. He came to stand at the bottom of the staircase and found an inch of dust covering the steps. There were drag marks all the way from the bottom to the top. He froze. It couldn't have thrown Sam down the stairs yet- not till three o'clock.

Suddenly, an agonized cry came from the top of the stairs. Dean's blood boiled over. "Sammy!" He tore up the stairs, wading through the dust that clung to his shoes. He reached the top and saw that the trail of dust led under the door directly in front of him. He yanked on the locked handle, then slammed his whole weight against the door. "Sam!" He shouted, hitting it again. He heard Sam give a second, strangled cry. Finally, he stood back, aiming the 9 millimeter at the lock. He blew it right off and kicked the door in.

Sam was sprawled on his back across the bed, hands tied to each of the bedposts. His face was pale, Dean could see red marks all over his skin from the wraith's feedings and tiny trials of blood were running from his shoulders. The wraith was nowhere to be seen.

"Sam." Dean ran across the room, dropping the 9 millimeter so he could pull a knife from his back pocket. He cut through the rope around Sam's right wrist, then ran around the bed to the left. He quickly sat on the dusty mattress, leaning over his brother. "Sammy. Sammy." Dean slapped his face a couple times, and Sam's head lolled to the side, eyes still closed.

"C'mon Sam, don't you do this to me," Dean said sternly, shaking Sam's shoulders. Finally, Sam's eyes opened halfway. Dean felt his whole body relax. "Dude don't scare me like that!"

"Sorry," Sam whispered, his voice barely audible. Relief was written all over his sweat-streaked face, but it slid into fear. "Dean…" He shook his head, unable to finish.

"Hey." Dean grabbed his shoulder, determined. "You are not dying, you hear me? We're getting outa here."

"The wraith…all my life's gone in…to him." He coughed, his whole body trembling. He looked small and exhausted.

"Hey there is no way I'm letting that guy get away from me twice. But we're getting you out of here first. C'mon, let's get you up."

Dean had anticipated having to help Sam out of the house, but he hadn't realized just how weak his brother was going to be. Sam leaned almost all his weight against Dean's shoulders. His legs seemed unwilling to hold him up. "Sam, you gotta work with me here," Dean told him anxiously.

"Sorry…" Sam whispered, and suddenly his knees buckled. Both boys fell, landing in the thick dust just at the top of the stairs. Dean scrambled to his knees, flipping Sam over.

"Sam! Sam." He smacked at the dust clinging to Sam's hair. "C'mon Sammy, you can do this." He pulled him into a sitting position, but Sam looked as though he hadn't the strength to hold himself up for long.

"Dean. I tried to…to wait for you." Breathing heavily, he slumped forward, and Dean caught him quickly.

"I know you did," He said quietly, trying to think as Sam's head leaned lifelessly on his shoulder. He looked down at him, and jostled him a little. "Hey. Hey, Sammy." Sam stirred just a little. "I didn't come all this way just to let you kick it now." Dean grabbed him under the arms, hoisting him a little ways off the floor. Then, eyes lit with determination, reaching for every ounce of strength he could, he dragged Sam into a standing position, and leaning down, slung him across his shoulder.

He sighed heavily under his weight. "Dude you were doing fine with Dad's stubbornness, you didn't need his height too," he muttered as they made their way to the stairs.

They were halfway down, when a bloodcurdling shriek came from behind them. Dean turned as quickly as he could without dropping his brother. The wraith stood at the top of the staircase, eyes a blaze of furry, hands clenched on either side of the railing.

"BRING HIM BACK!" It screamed in an unnatural voice that made the windows rattle.

"Come get him!" Dean shouted back, and without thinking, pulled out the P90 firing it twice into the wraith's chest. It howled, hands clutching at the burning red marks the gun left. And then it toppled, cascading down the dusty steps towards them. Dean didn't have anywhere near enough time to get out of the way. The three of them came crashing down the stairs, the wraith screaming in agony, Dean trying desperately to keep from letting go of Sam.

They hit the bottom with a deafening bang. The world swirled around Dean's head and he could feel his right hand still clutching Sam's jacket. He sat up slowly, head throbbing. The whole house seemed to have fallen utterly silent.

"Sam." He rummaged around in the dust beside him, trying to unearth his brother. "Sam. Sam!" Sam's head came up suddenly, eyes wide open and he gasped. Dean shook him. "Sammy. You okay?"

He nodded, coughing. "Where is it?"

Dean looked at the cloud they were sitting in and noticed there was a layer of black dust scattered like soot over the silver-gray layer. He reached for a handful of it and showed it to Sam. "You mean this?"

"Guess he had to fall down the stairs a second time." Sam raised his eyebrows. "Okay…so that was really easy."

"Easy?" Dean sat up, brushing dust off his jacket. "Hey man dragging you around is nothing like easy." Sam smiled ruefully, rubbing his chest and wincing. Dean watched him. "Sure you're okay?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I…thought I was a goner for a minute there. How'd you find me?"

"Now that is a very long story I don't want to get into right now. C'mon." He stood up and offered Sam a hand. "Let's get out of here." Sam took his hand and inhaled sharply as he got to his feet. Dean put his arm around his shoulder and Sam allowed himself to be supported out the front door and down the sidewalk.

He spotted the Mustang. "Nice wheels. Finally made a trade-in?"

Dean looked offended. "My beauty for that thing? That wraith really messed with your head, tiger."

Sam slid into the passenger seat, eyes clenched in pain. "Man," he gritted, "you ever find another wraith to hunt, you are most definitely doing it on your own."

"Noted," Dean grinned, and slammed the door.

- - - - -


	9. Nine

- - - - -

They went speeding away from Lawrence, neither speaking. Sam, because he was too exhausted, Dean because there was too much to say. Sam finally fell asleep, his head resting against the window. Three hours later he finally awoke, turning to Dean. "Hey, there a rest stop coming up?"

"I was going to get off soon for gas. Why?"

Sam squinted blearily out the window. "I'm…kinda thirsty."

Dean shook his head. "Ah man, sorry. I totally forgot. Have you had anything the last three days?" Sam shrugged in a 'it's no big deal' sort of way. Dean sighed, "Just hang in there, okay?"

They pulled into a gas station a half-hour later, and Dean climbed out and went into the store. He returned a few minutes later. "Here you go, I got you a hamburger, fries and a Coke…yeah the hamburger looks disgusting, but hey. When you haven't had anything in awhile…" He handed the bag to Sam who took it, grinning.

"Thanks." Dean walked around the car and started filling the tank. Sam ate some of his food and drank most of the Coke while he typed away at his laptop. After a little while, he leaned out the window. "So I figured out who the wraith was."

Dean glanced up from the pump. "Yeah?"

"Steven Lindsey. His mom died almost seventy years ago, and a week after that, his dad, who didn't come to the funeral, finally came home. Steven and his dad had a fight, it got ugly…" he sighed, shrugging. "Steven ended up at the bottom of twenty-three steps."

"So Simone and her Ghostbuster tendencies were just a red haring. It was really after anyone who lost their mom and knew someone who died near twenty-three stairs."

"No wonder the attacks were so erratic. Must have been tough to find that exact situation."

"Yeah," Dean smirked. "Bad luck for you."

Sam didn't reply for a little while. Then, "I wonder if Simone and her dad had a falling out." Dean looked at him. "I was just thinking…Steven and his dad fought, Dad and I fought." He shrugged.

Dean looked annoyed. "Hey, hey- I know what you're thinking, Sam, so stop it."

Sam put his hands up. "I'm just saying it's an interesting coincidence."

"You and this Steven guy are nothing alike. I know that letter you read shook you up, but you'd been chewed on by a wraith for the last two days. Anything would look bad after that."

Sam smiled appreciatively, and sat back in his seat. "So I've sort of been dying to ask. How'd you end up in Lawrence?"

"Followed Route 54 from Dodge City."

Sam shook his head. "I'm serious, Dean. How'd you find me? And how'd you get to Dodge City without the Impala?"

Dean put his arms on the top of the window frame, leaning his head in. "I flew."

A smirk crossed Sam's face. "Fine, if you don't want to tell me, don't."

Dean looked offended. "Dude no really, I took the Red Eye from Santa Clara."

Sam laughed. "Whatever, man."

Dean pulled the nozzle from the car, paid for the gas, then jumped into the car. "I'm telling you- okay, fine.  
I've got a ticket." He pulled the airline ticket from his coat and handed it to Sam, who looked at it, his expression transforming.

"You flew."

"Yeah."

"From Santa Clara."

"Yes."

"Well…" He handed the ticket back, at a loss. "What the heck were you doing in Santa Clara, Dean?"

"I uh…" Dean sighed, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Made a bad mistake. We went to Stanford cause I thought you'd be there. And I was wrong."

Sam looked utterly puzzled. "What…what do you mean 'we'?"

Dean bit his lip, staring at Sam for a very long time. Then he said matter-of-factly, "Dad came." Sam just stared at him, his expression unreadable. Dean continued, "I called him, told him what happened, that you'd been taken, and he…next morning he showed up. I uh…" he nodded fervently, "wouldn't have found you Sammy, if it wasn't for him."

Sam seemed to finally find his voice, and it was a little chocked. "So where is he?"

"He left." Dean said, looking away. "Got a tip-off from Pastor Jim for some guy who knew about the demon. Dropped me at the airport and took off for San Jose."

Sam was shaking his head. "He sent you alone." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah he did. He said he wouldn't send me if he didn't know I could get you out-"

"Oh stop defending him, Dean!"

Dean's eyebrows knit. "I'm not."

"Yeah you are, you always do. But Dean he risked your life- my life. To go after that thing."

"And why do you think that is, Sam?" Dean's voice rose. "Huh? It's for us. It's because we lost Mom and you lost Jess, this isn't about him. If it was, he would have given up a long time ago."

Sam kept his eyes fixed out the window. Dean revved the engine and started to pull out of the station so the impatient Ford Escort behind them would stop honking. As they drove off down I70, Sam suddenly laughed dryly to himself. Dean glanced at him. "What."

Sam rolled his eyes as though catching on to a joke. "He didn't come."

Dean looked incredulous. "Come again?"

"Dean I get it. You think that that if I believe Dad was part of this, I'll stop trying to find him. But you can't create peace between us by lying to me."

"Woah woah, hey. Who saved whose sorry behind today, huh? And let me tell you something, I couldn't have done it alone. Not without Dad."

"Then why hasn't he even called to make sure we're okay? It's been seven hours since I was supposed to be lying at the bottom of those stairs dead. And he hasn't even called?"

"He's probably busy." Dean said defensively.

Sam shook his head and stared out the window. "Fine." There was a tense pause, then, "Where are we going?"

"Back to Evanston. Figured we'd pick up the Impala and go from there."

"Dean it's like twenty hours to-"

"Sixteen, actually."

"You would rather drive sixteen hours than take a plane."

"I'd drive sixteen hours on a moped not to take a plane." Sam grinned. Dean glanced at him. "But first we're going to make a stop."

"For what?"

- - - - -

"This is what you call 'real food'?" Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow as the waitress led them through the restaurant. Dean glanced over his shoulder.

"Steak houses are always good."

"Even ones called Ronny's House of Steak? It sounds like theme park."

They reached their table and the waitress handed them each a menu and excused herself momentarily. Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well Gandhi, you hungry or not? Cause we can always go to Chuck E Cheese's instead."

Sam grinned. "Nah, it looks great."

"Good." Dean motioned to a chair. "Now sit down before you fall down, you look like crud."

"Thanks." Sam slid into a chair near the window and Dean sat opposite him. They perused their menus for a little while, and finally, the waitress returned.

"Get you gentlemen anything to drink?"

"Beer for me." Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "Hi-C for junior here."

Sam smiled politely at the waitress. "I'll have a Coke, please."

She smiled brightly. "Coming up."

"Oh hey wait a sec-" Dean got out of his chair and whispered something into her ear. She looked confused at first, then turned and smiled brightly at him.

"Be back with your drinks," she said and walked away.

Dean sat back down and was met with a look of disbelief. He threw his hands up. "What?"

Sam shook his head. "Nice to see it takes more than a near-death experience and a ten-hour flight to make you stop schmoozing with girls in bars."

"Hey I am offended. For your information, I didn't even ask for her email address. I just had a question."

"Oh yeah?" Sam challenged, enjoying himself. "And what was that."

Suddenly applause came from somewhere in the back of the restaurant. Sam turned and saw a row of waiters making their way towards them, all of them clapping rhythmically. To his horror, they all gathered around his and Dean's table.

"One! Two! Three! Four!" Sam fixed Dean with what he hoped was his best 'you are so going to pay for this' expression, and Dean, unabashed and grinning brilliantly, sang along with the waiters. "Happy happy birthday, from all of us to you, we wish it was our birthday so we could party too! We are so excited, we hope that you are too, so happy happy birthday from all of Ronny's crew!"

Half of the restaurant joined in the applause as their waitress placed a very gooey-looking slice of cake with a candle sticking out of it in front of Sam. "Make a wish Sammy," Dean told him, still beaming.

Sighing patiently, Sam blew lightly down on the candle and it doused instantly. The applause rose again from the waiters and Dean, and finally everyone went back to work. Sam reached across the table once the waitress had handed them their drinks, and smacked Dean on the side of the head. Dean took it willingly. "C'mon, I told you I'd make up for forgetting."

"Yeah," Sam said, and took a sip from his soda. "Yeah this is definitely the right way to get out of the doghouse."

"Oh hey. There's something else." Dean reached into his coat and pulled out a rumpled-looking blue envelope and handed to Sam. "Open it up."

Sam tore the side open with his index finger, and found a very simple-looking card with a blue-and-black design on the front. It read, "On This Important Day…" on the cover, and inside said, "Happy Birthday!" Sam looked up at Dean, trying to think what to say.

Dean shrugged. "Hey I wanted to get you one that said, 'To a pain-in-the-neck I know' but there was this dumb little mouse in a party hat on the front I just couldn't swallow." Sam grinned. "Hey umn…read the rest."

Sam flipped the card open again and found an inscription written in pen. He read aloud, "Sorry we forgot again Sammy, better luck next year. From Dean and…" He paused as though something had lodged in his throat. Dean looked away as he finished, "and Dad." Sam closed the card, staring out the window then back at his brother. "Dean, I-"

Dean took a drink from his beer, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter, Sammy." An uncomfortable pause followed during which Sam numbly returned the card to its envelope. Then Dean spoke again, "I told Dad if we were going to forget your birthday two years in a row, a card's the least we could do. I know how much that stuff always meant to you when we were kids." He nodded to the envelope on the table. "Signed that before we busted into Stanford."

Sam shook his head. "I shoulda believed you."

"Ah," Dean shrugged, fiddling with the lip of his beer bottle. "The man drives you crazy, I get it. And I'll be honest, I don't know why he hasn't called. But Sam you need to get something." And here Sam looked directly at him. "Dad was really worried about you. If it weren't for that tip-off on the demon, he would be here now. I swear." Sam watched him, then slowly started to nod.

Dean suddenly leaned forward, pinching a piece of frosting from the cake and licking his fingers. He scrunched his nose up. "Woah. Okay, don't eat that."

Sam laughed and pushed the plate to the middle of the table. "You kidding me? I'm ordering dinner. I haven't had anything but a lousy burger for the last three days."

"Hey, that burger wasn't lousy."

Sam sighed superiorly, ruffling his menu like a newspaper. "That's because you didn't have to eat it."

"Geek."

"Punk."

Dean took another drink to smother his grin. "Shut-up."

- - - - -


	10. The End

- - - - -

"Dean, you're not driving, okay?"

"Gimme a break, Sammy I'm not even tipsy."

"Uh-huh. Where are your keys?"

Dean backed up a few feet. "No way I'm letting you drive my car, wraith bait."

Sam coughed. "Uh…your car?"

"I'm the one who stole it, so it's more mine than it is yours." He grinned. "You're just jealous because you would have grabbed a minivan or something."

Sam shrugged. "Fine, you drive. Where are the keys?"

"In my wallet."

Sam watched him, amused, as he patted down his coat. He put on his most parental tone. "Where's your wallet, Dean?"

Dean winced. "At a guess, sitting next to my beer bottle in Ronny's." Sam laughed. "Oh laugh it up, birthday boy."

"I'll get it." Sam said, sighing, and went back into the restaurant.

Dean leaned against the Mustang's hood, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. His heart gave a leap. He'd turned it off during the flight to Dodge City. "Ah Dad…" Sure enough, he powered up his phone and the screen said, YOU HAVE 3 UNREAD MESSAGES. With a feeling like a weight on his chest, he listened pressed the phone to his ear.

_First Message…BEEEP_

"Dean. It was…it was a trick. The contact was no good, the tip…well…someone played us good. Listen, uh…" Dean could sense an apology hovering in there, but John simply said, "You're on the flight right now, that's probably why your phone's off…when you get this message call me, all right?" Long pause. Then it ended.

_Second Message…BEEEP_

"It's me again. It's umn- okay, it's almost two o'clock. You've got to be on your way to Lawrence by now. I'm headed to Evanston, I assume once you get Sammy, you're going back for the car. I'll meet you there, but I'm going to a hotel first so I can recharge my phone. Dean…call me."

_Third Message…BEEEP_

"Dean. Dean-"

Dean couldn't think when he'd last heard real tears in his father's voice. But they were there now, barely concealed. He sounded tired, desperate. It made Dean's hands shake.

"It's three thirty-four. My umn, my phone's dying. I guess…guess I told you that. I think someone might be following me, must have picked up my trail from San Jose. It's not safe for me to meet you in Evanston. I'm not gonna be able to stop either, so this is the last message I can send before my battery gives out." He took a long, shaky breath. "Dean, you call my voicemail the minute you boys get a chance. Let me know…how you uh…how it…" Dean felt an unexplainable lump form in his throat as John grappled with himself. "Promise me Sammy's okay. Just uh…tell him happy birthday for me, kay? And Dean, I'm…I-"

_End of Message._

Dean shut the phone, his breath clouding the air in front of him. He sat for awhile, pressing the antenna to his lips, lost in thought. Then he opened it again, dialed the number from memory, and held it to his ear. It went straight to voicemail.

"Dad, it's Dean. We're okay, Sammy's…Sammy's gonna be okay. We killed it, uh…pushed it down the stairs, actually," he laughed half-heartedly, then stood in silence, uncertain. "Look umn, we're going back to Evanston for the Impala, so…yeah, I guess you knew that, cause you were going to meet us. It's okay you can't, though. Don't worry about it." He scuffed his shoes in the dirt. "Don't uh…Dad, don't beat yourself up about the tip-off. It's-"

_BEEEP_

Dean looked down at the phone. CALL ENDED. He'd run out of room.

Suddenly, the door of Ronny's opened and a disgruntled Sam came out, and held up three scraps of paper. "Sandra, Jennifer and Julia's phone numbers. They claim that you never asked for them, and that you just seemed 'like a fascinating, introspective sort of guy'. What's funny is-" he slouched next to Dean, and shoved the pieces of paper into his jacket pocket. "They ALL said it. Word-for-word." He rolled his eyes, and grinned. "I'm telling you, if some demon wanted to track us, all they'd have to do is bar-hop from one end of the US to the other and see which waitresses-" He stopped, noticing the expression on Dean's face for the first time. "Hey, what's up?"

Dean didn't look at him at first. "Dad called. Three times, actually. But I turned my phone off on the plane, forgot to turn it back on. Forgot about calling him from Lawrence, too." He finally looked up at Sam, who was watching him, his expression blank. "That's why we didn't hear from him. His phone died, so he can't…get a hold of us for a little bit."

Sam nodded, and stared down at the gravel. "What else did he say?"

"He said to tell you happy birthday." Sam looked up.

They stood in silence until, finally, Dean stood up off the hood, and smacked Sam lightly on the chest. "Let's get going, Sammy."

Sam stood up as well, and went silently to his side of the car, pulled the door open, and slid inside, slamming it hard behind him. Dean stood out in front of the car for a moment. Then he opened his phone once more, resolve on his face. He dialed the number and pressed it to his ear.

"What I was gonna say…it's not your fault. And Sam and I, we don't blame you for it. And we're both okay." He took a deep breath, and let it go. "We'll see ya, Dad." He ended the call, climbed in the car, and the two of them sped off down I40, Motorhead screaming out the windows.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
